Silent

The whispering
Of the maple’s boughs
In evening’s breeze
Is as her sighs.
Sunset fires
Scarlett and gold
Behind the tree’s silhouette
Is as her presence
Ever with me.

Straining to hear
The universe
Hoping for a word
In the wind
I listen to
The rhythms of dusk
Wanting knowledge
Of her.

Strange
The little voices
That rise
In dimming light.
The cacophony of speech
Rising from woodlands
Prairies
Hills
And rivers.

Voices everywhere
But not a syllable
From her.

I hear the plaintive howl
Of the coyote
The papery fluttering
Of batwings
Coughing from the mouths
Of caves
The peep of night birds
The squeak of mice
And the barking
Of yard dogs.

But her voice is still.

The planets have song
Stars and quasars
Shout fire
And the moon groans
Low in the trees.

But she is silent.

I will listen always
For her voice.

Hearing
It is said
Is the last of the senses
To die.

I will surrender sight
Dismiss every human attribute
Save hearing
Hoping to the last
To salvage
But one utterance
From her.